


Echoes of You (Echoes of Us)

by crookedsilence



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Off-screen death, set in their second and third years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29666067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedsilence/pseuds/crookedsilence
Summary: Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.It’s the only word that matters now. It’s the only word that holds any meaning.Gone.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	Echoes of You (Echoes of Us)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and I make no profit for it.
> 
> Hello friends! I know I’m a bit late to the haikyuu party, but better late than never, right?
> 
> Anyways, this is an emotionally heavy fic, and these are emotionally heavy times, so please be kind to yourself and know that I am giving you a hug before, during, and after reading this.
> 
> Additionally, if you would like more information on the possibly-triggering aspects of this fic, please skip to the end note, read carefully, and make the decision that is best for you.

**After**

The ball is up, spinning slowly through the air, blue then yellow then blue again. Kageyama watches it approach, and he counts the seconds in his head.

One, two, three.

His hands lift, fingers splayed, and he feels the weight of it fall into them, familiar in a way that brings little comfort. With a quick extension, he launches the ball back into the air, an easy floater that will give his spiker time. To choose the angle, to choose the power. But no choice is made.

Or a choice is made.

But it is the wrong choice, and he hears the spiker let out a sound of shock and frustration as his arm swings full-force through thin air.

The boy lands with a rough squeak of shoes, and a second later, the ball follows, thwapping against the ground and bouncing once, twice, before slowing to a roll.

Kageyama flinches at the sound, each bounce twisting an iron band around his chest and squeezing. Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

“Damn it,” the spiker mutters. “I read that wrong. I was off.”

Kageyama’s hands fall to his sides, useless, and he tries to pull in a slow breath before his heart can start beating too quickly, but the air sticks in his throat, catching on the lump that’s been there for days, weeks.

“I’m sorry,” the spiker tells him. “Kageyama-senpai, I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll get the next one. I can do it. I know I can. Just toss me another. Give me one more.”

Those words slip between his ribs like a rusty blade. Then they twist.

“Kageyama,” he hears Yamaguchi call, tone careful, cautious, like he’s approaching a wild animal with both hands raised.

“Just one more,” the spiker repeats, confused but earnest. “I can do it.”

Bile burning in his throat, Kageyama takes two quick steps forward and finds himself outside the bright white boundaries. It’s easier to breathe here but only just.

“Kageyama,” Yamaguchi repeats, so quiet it’s like he hasn’t spoken at all.

There are footsteps behind him, approaching, and he takes another couple steps, further from the court, closer to the door.

“Kageyama-senpai, I’m sorry,” the spiker says, guilt staining the words though he probably doesn’t know why. “Please, just—”

The rest of the sentence dies, and Kageyama can hear Yamaguchi’s quiet murmur, reassuring the first-year spiker that he did nothing wrong, nothing at all.

Chest tight, Kageyama continues to the door and spills out into the early morning light, stumbling down the steps before falling to his hands and knees.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

His vision blurs. The edges go black.

He heaves, but nothing comes up, only a hacking breath and the bitter taste of bile. He thinks he might have skinned his hands in his weak attempt to catch himself. His palms sting, and he focuses on that pain, allowing the sharp sensation to pull him out of his head for just a moment.

Just one moment.

When fingers brush his shoulder, he jerks away, scrambling across the unforgiving concrete as he spins to face the intruder.

Tsukishima crouches before him, one hand extended and a knowing look in his eyes, sorrowful, pitying. After a moment, Kageyama turns away because the weight of that gaze is too heavy to bear. Tsukishima lets out a weary breath, and his hand drops, retreating to his side.

Shame and loss swirling through him, Kageyama looks at the ground: the scattered leaves, the small chunks of gravel, the streaks of dirt across the concrete’s textured surface, and Tsukishima says nothing. But he remains, tall frame bent in on itself in a way that would be comical under any other circumstances.

Minutes pass.

Tears sting at Kageyama’s eyes.

And a soft breeze whispers through the air.

Finally, when his breaths come easier—easier not easy—Kageyama shoves himself to his feet. “Sorry,” he says, quick and short, terse.

Across from him, Tsukishima slowly unfolds, rising gracefully to his feet until Kageyama has to tilt his chin up to meet his eyes. “There is nothing to forgive,” he tells Kageyama, and Kageyama’s jaw clenches.

For another moment, neither speaks. (After all, there is nothing to say.) Then Kageyama scrubs the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the few tears that managed to escape, and says, “I’m going to change. I’m not much use out there.”

Tsukishima doesn’t disagree, only nods before turning and heading back up the gym stairs and inside. In his wake, it is quiet—quieter than it already was—and the silence envelopes Kageyama, wrapping him in a still unfamiliar embrace.

Throat constricting, he squeezes his eyes shut.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

Change, he reminds himself. He was going to change.

Take off his barely-sweaty practice gear. Put on his clean school uniform. Walk to class. Listen to the teacher drone on and on. Eat lunch. Listen to the teacher again. Return—

That’s too many, isn’t it?

Too many things to keep track of. Too many things to shoulder on his own.

One thing at a time, a voice rings in his head.

Right.

Change clothes.

That’s all he’s doing right now.

Just changing his clothes.

\----

**Before**

“What are you doing?” Kageyama finally asks, casting Hinata a suspicious look.

He’s been fidgeting for the last ten minutes, shifting and readjusting every five seconds, much to Kageyama’s distraction. He’s closer, too. Kageyama hadn’t noticed at first—they’d started the movie with a good half-cushion between them—but slowly, Hinata had migrated across the open space. First, his knee had bumped Kageyama’s thigh. Then, his elbow had nudged his. Finally, his fingers had brushed against the sensitive skin of Kageyama’s wrist, and that had been the last straw.

Features the picture of innocence, Hinata looks up at him and blinks, eyes guileless. His fingers are now fully wrapped around Kageyama’s wrist though, and just ten seconds ago, he’d been trying to subtly lift Kageyama’s arm. For what purpose, Kageyama had no idea.

He frowns. “What are you doing?”

Hinata blinks again and hedges, “Nothing.”

Kageyama’s frown inches into scowl territory. “You’re not doing nothing. Don’t lie to me. Why are you trying to move my arm?”

A soft flush fills Hinata’s cheeks, and he looks away, eyes darting around the room as if he’ll be able to find something to distract Kageyama from his line of questioning. “I wasn’t trying to move your arm,” he mumbles, a bald-faced lie. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

Warmth fills Kageyama’s own cheeks, an involuntary reaction that he really wishes he didn’t have to the redhead, and he frowns down at their hands, Hinata’s fingers still looped around his wrist. “You were doing something. You’ve been trying to do something for the last ten minutes.”

“Have not.”

“Have too.”

“Have not!”

“Have too,” Kageyama insists, lifting his wrist to show Hinata his own hand on Kageyama’s skin. “And you’re still—”

Hinata surges forward then, clumsy and eager, taking advantage of Kageyama’s actions to slip under his arm and…right…into…his…lap. Kageyama freezes, mouth open, eyes wide, and his arm hangs uselessly in the air as Hinata makes himself comfortable. Right. in. his. lap.

“What are you doing?” he finally demands, voice cracking around the words and making the red in his cheeks even darker.

With a content sound, Hinata leans against him, reaches up for his still suspended arm, and tucks it around his waist, threading their fingers together. “Watching the movie,” he replies, self-satisfied.

Kageyama wonders if it’s possible to spontaneously combust, face hotter than it is after a long run beneath the hot summer sun. “Boke, we’ve been watching this movie for the last hour. Why do you suddenly need to watch it here?”

Snuggling further into Kageyama’s arms, Hinata lets out a displeased noise. “You know, other couples have cute pet names. Baby, sweetheart, honey, that kind of stuff.” Kageyama splutters. “But you just call me boke. That’s not a very nice thing to call your boyfriend.”

Kageyama is testing the limits of human combustibility, assisted by Hinata and the excessive heat he seems to put off, entirely too warm for someone of his small size. “I only call you that when you do dumb stuff,” he defends.

Hinata tips his head back and curls his lips into an absurd pout.

He looks ridiculous. Not cute at all.

“It’s dumb to want to cuddle with my boyfriend while we watch a movie?” he asks, eyes going wide. “Kageyama, I knew you weren’t romantic, but this is a new low even for you.”

The scowl returns to Kageyama’s face, and he aims its full force at Hinata in an attempt to combat the pathetic pout that is definitely not cute at all. “I’m romantic,” he protests. “I’m very romantic.”

Hinata cocks his head to the side and lifts a brow. “You thought staying after practice to work on our quick counted as a date.”

The corners of Kageyama’s mouth pull down. “We stopped for meat buns afterwards! And I paid! How does that not count as a date?”

Hinata’s thumb sweeps over his skin. “We do that every day.”

“So we go on a date every day,” Kageyama counters. “Are you trying to say that’s a bad thing?”

Hinata rolls his eyes at the challenge in Kageyama’s voice, fond if exasperated. “We did that every day before we were dating.”

“We could’ve been dating then. If you’d just realized.”

A soft snort escapes Hinata, and he shakes his head. “We could’ve been dating then if you’d opened up your stupid mouth and said something instead of assuming that paying for my meat buns after complaining about it for five minutes counted as a way to show you liked me.”

Embarrassment heats Kageyama’s cheeks, and he shifts restlessly, dislodging Hinata for a moment before settling back down. With an ease that Kageyama secretly enjoys, Hinata follows the movement, forward and back, moving away before coming back to fit himself against Kageyama once more.

“We also could’ve been dating then if you’d realized that asking me to practice in the park with you on Sundays didn’t count as asking me on a date.”

Hinata’s pout transforms into a frown, and he faces forward, fingers tight around Kageyama’s. “That totally counts as asking you on a date. It’s not my fault you were too dumb to figure it out.”

Kageyama scoffs. “How was I supposed to figure it out? We’d gone to the park to practice a million times. There was nothing different about it.”

“Yes, there was!” Hinata protests. “I walked closer to you on the way there, and I made sure to compliment all of your tosses, even the ones that weren’t as good.”

Kageyama frowns. “Why would you do that, bo—” He clears his throat. “Why would you do that? How am I supposed to make a better toss if you don’t tell me when one’s not good?”

Hinata shakes his head, dismissive. “I always tell you now.”

Kageyama rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“So?” Hinata asks, back pressing more insistently against Kageyama’s chest. “It’s not like it matters. We’re dating now, and I always make sure to tell you when you mess up a toss. It’s fine.”

Kageyama huffs.

“It’s fine,” Hinata repeats. Then, he tips his head back and gives Kageyama that look that makes him feel like he’s about to burst into flames and melt into a puddle of goo at the same time. “It’s fine,” he repeats, and his warm breath spills over Kageyama’s lips, face closer than it should be, until Kageyama realizes he’s already leaning down, drawn in by Hinata’s inescapable gravity.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to get Hinata to drop it than to express any agreement.

The hand not tangled with his lifts to curl around his nape. “Yeah,” Hinata agrees and offers him a brilliant grin before he pulls him down for a kiss.

\----

**After**

Everyone stares.

They try to hide it. They try to pretend like they aren’t. But they are.

Kageyama can feel their eyes on him as soon as he walks into the classroom, conversations dying out, movement ceasing. He walks to his desk with measured steps: one, two, three, four, five from the open door to the cold surface of his chair.

Slowly, he drops his bag onto the little hook connected to the desk and eases himself down.

No one speaks for a moment, the silence deafening in a normally boisterous classroom.

Then, “Kageyama-san,” someone says, gentle, friendly.

A scowl threatens to overtake his face, and he turns away quickly, arms folding on his desk and head bowing to rest against the black fabric of his coat. It’s rude. He knows it’s rude, but he doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to hear anymore more ‘I’m sorry’s or ‘I’m here’s. They’re worthless, meaningless, so far from comforting it’s better to not even hear them in the first place.

“Kageyama-san,” the voice repeats, and his jaw clenches.

Go away, he wants to say. Leave me alone.

Another voice murmurs something too low for Kageyama to make out, directed at the person still trying to get his attention. After a hushed conversation, he hears the rustling of fabric, someone moving away, someone turning away, and conversation restarts like a switch has been flipped, louder than before as if everyone is trying to make up for his silence.

Eventually, the teacher calls the class to order and begins, though Kageyama couldn’t say what she talks about.

There are lines of text on the board. Diagrams, equations, questions.

He doesn’t write them down. He doesn’t understand them.

His teacher’s voice washes over him, parts around him, and leaves him in its wake, unmoved, unaffected.

When the bell for lunch break rings, he blinks a few times and shakes himself, unsure how so much time has already passed. Around him, students rise, discussing what they’ve brought for lunch and what they plan to buy from the vending machine. Kageyama thinks about his own bento, tucked in the deep recesses of his bag, and feels sick.

He looks down, looks at the notebook open on his desk, and feels his stomach churn more violently.

There are words scrawled across the page, line upon line upon line, but nothing related to the day’s lessons, nothing resembling whatever knowledge their teacher had attempted to impart unto them. Just a name. Over and over and over.

Hinata. Hinata. Hinata. Hinata. Hinata. Hinata. Hinata.

There’re a few Shouyou’s thrown in, too. Even a Sho and a Sho-kun.

He’s going to throw up. He’s going to the _throw up_.

“Kageyama,” a voice calls, and he doesn’t want to answer—doesn’t know if he could answer—but this voice is familiar. This voice he knows.

He swallows the bile rising in his throat, burning and acrid, and lifts his head.

In the doorway stands Tsukishima, Yamaguchi just a few steps in front of him, eyes terribly soft as they fix on Kageyama.

“Come eat with us,” Yamaguchi says. More than a request, more than a suggestion.

The mere thought of food twists his stomach into painful knots.

Yamaguchi takes a step closer. Kageyama can hear his shoes on the spotless floors. “Come sit with us,” he amends.

It’s hardly better, hardly more appealing than eating the meal his mother prepared, but the alternative is sitting here, staring at the familiar strokes of Hinata’s name until he digs himself back into the hole his parents only just managed to pull him out of. And while that doesn’t sound so bad, he knows it would only make everyone worry more, and he’s made them worry enough, made them worry too much.

Limbs heavy and unwieldy, he nods. Then he forces himself to his feet, not even bothering to recover his bento from its hiding place.

When he gets close enough, Yamaguchi offers him a fleeting smile, and they turn to follow Tsukishima out into the hallway, where the vibrant noise of life envelopes Kageyama and makes him question this decision. It’s quieter in the classroom. It’s better in the classroom.

“Stupid kids,” Tsukishima mutters as they weave through the recessed students, “acting like they’ve forgotten basic manners as soon as the bell rings.”

Yamaguchi snorts, soft, brief.

Kageyama keeps his head down.

They make it outside, and the chill air nips at his skin, pulling the blood up to the surface. There are less people outside, most chased in doors by the heavy clouds overhead and the unfriendly bite of the wind. Kageyama welcomes the weather, if only for the space it provides.

Feet leaden, he follows them across the courtyard to a bench beneath a near-barren tree. Yamaguchi sits on one end; Tsukishima sits on the other; and Kageyama understands that the center is for him. Hands shoved in his pockets, he shuffles forward, turns, and drops onto the bench, staring across the open space with eyes unseeing.

To his right, Tsukishima opens his bento and begins to eat, movements precise and efficient, so proper Noya or Tanaka would’ve mocked him for it had they still been around. To his left, Yamaguchi also opens his lunch but does very little eating, instead filling the air with an easy chatter about the boy whose phone went off during class and the girl who tried to confess to one of their classmates before school.

Kageyama pays little attention, letting Tsukishima maintain the semblance of conversation with his quiet hums and his muttered commentaries, and they sit there until the first bell rings, warning them to return to class in the next five minutes.

With a weary sigh, Tsukishima snaps the lid back on his box, and Yamaguchi tucks his chopsticks away. Then they rise from the bench and return to the school’s warm interior.

At the door to his class, Yamaguchi says, “We’ll see you later. If you want,” he tacks on with a wince after Tsukishima nudges him in warning. “Only if you want.”

Kageyama does not want.

To be near the gym. To play volleyball with any of them. To toss to someone besides—

Despite his stomach’s emptiness (no breakfast and now no lunch), it still threatens upheaval. He shakes his head: in protest of his stomach’s revolt, in response to Yamaguchi’s unspoken question.

Tsukishima hums, and Yamaguchi says, “We’ll see you tomorrow then,” and Kageyama hates how it sounds like a plea.

He nods, though it could be a lie, and turns to walk towards his desk.

“Tomorrow,” Yamaguchi repeats, a quiet desperation in the words, and Kageyama takes his seat.

Tomorrow is so very far away, he thinks, looking at the stark lines of Hinata’s name. So very far.

\----

**Before**

His eyes flick open in the dark, and he frowns at the ceiling as he tries to figure out what woke him up. Does he need to pee? Is he too hot? Is Nakamura (one of the new first years) snoring again? Did he forget about his English homework? Did—

“Kageyama,” comes a whisper that is louder than it should be at this hour. “Kageyama.”

Groaning, he rolls his head to the side and can just make out Hinata’s outline in the dark, hair wild and eyes catching the stray drops of moonlight that slip past the curtains. “Why are you awake, boke?” he grumbles, the name more endearment than insult. “We have to be up early for practice.”

Hinata pushes himself up onto his elbows and curls his forearms and hands around his pillow, squishing it into a disfigured lump that he fits against his chest. He mumbles something into the starched pillowcase, and Kageyama frowns.

“I can’t hear you with that in your mouth, dumbass.”

Hinata makes a low, frustrated sound.

“That wasn’t even words,” Kageyama comments. “Did you really wake me up for this?”

Silence is all Hinata offers in return, and Kageyama shakes his head, adjusting his thin blanket as he tries to find a comfortable position.

“Are you going back to sleep?” Hinata asks, lifting his head enough for the words to be clear, and Kageyama wants to snap a cranky reply because it’s the middle of the night, three days into training camp, but he bites the words down before they can escape, catching them between his teeth at the hint of…panic? worry? fear? he hears in Hinata’s voice.

Resigning himself to at least a few more minutes of this midnight disruption, he turns his head back to look at Hinata, taking in the hunched shoulders and the white-knuckled grip he has on his pillow. He sighs. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Hinata quickly shakes his head, a vigorous back and forth that only lasts for a moment before being replaced with a hesitant, almost reluctant nod.

Brows pinching, Kageyama rolls onto his side and looks across the scant feet that separate their futons. “What happened?”

Hinata bites his lip.

“I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what happened.”

Hinata looks down to avoid his eyes, and Kageyama withholds a groan.

“Come on,” he prompts, kicking a foot out to lightly knock against Hinata’s shin. “You can tell me. I won’t laugh or anything.”

Hinata’s lips twist with doubt, and a sliver of hurt wedges itself in Kageyama’s chest.

He wouldn’t laugh. He’d never. Not if it’s something serious. Not if it’s something that has Hinata waking him up in the middle of the night during training camp. Not if it’s something that has Hinata looking uncertain and even fearful in the dead of night.

Smarting from the silent disbelief, Kageyama watches Hinata for a moment. Then he does a quick scan of the room, checking that everyone’s asleep before lifting the edge of his blanket and waving it in invitation.

Hinata looks between him and the opening, a quiet hope in his eyes.

“Get over here,” Kageyama mutters. “You can go back to your futon after, and no one’ll know you were ever here.”

In a sharp break from the norm, Hinata continues to hesitate, and Kageyama curses stupid Tsukishima for all the comments he threw their way about making sure to keep their futons at least two feet apart and staying on their side of the bed and a million other things that made Kageyama rolls his eyes in the moment but now make him want to gauge Tsukishima’s eyes out.

“Come here,” he says, waving the blanket a little more insistently. “If anyone finds out and Tsukishima says anything, I’ll serve a ball into the back of his head.”

That gets a quiet giggle out of Hinata, and Kageyama grins in reply, the smug, curving grin that his teammates always say makes him look a little crazy.

“Come on,” he urges. “This offer won’t last forever.”

Hinata takes him at his word and scrambles across the cold flooring, slipping under the blankets and plastering himself against Kageyama’s chest as his arms loop around his waist. Head shaking fondly, Kageyama tucks the blanket back around them and pulls Hinata that little bit closer, earning a content hum that sends warmth spilling through his chest.

They lay like that for several minutes, breaths slowing and heartbeats synching, and Kageyama can feel the siren song of sleep calling him once more.

“Hey,” he murmurs, poking gently at Hinata’s side before he can fall asleep.

In response, Hinata only groans and wiggles closer, face buried in the worn cotton of Kageyama’s shirt.

“Hinata.”

No response.

“Hinata.”

Still nothing.

“Shouyou.”

Hinata goes stiff in his arms, and Kageyama sighs. He’s gotten better at all the messy, complicated feelings stuff, but that doesn’t mean he’s good at it.

“Did something happen?” he asks, looking down at the wild tufts of orange hair that brush his neck and chin. “Is something wrong?”

Hinata is quiet for a moment. Then he mumbles something that Kageyama feels more than hears.

He shakes his head. “Hey dummy, I can’t hear you like that.”

Hinata says something else that is drowned out by their teammates’ breathing and Kageyama’s own pulse that echoes in his ears.

“Still can’t hear you.”

Hinata groans and slowly tilts his head up. “You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

Kageyama blinks down at him. “Is it stupid?”

Hinata scowls.

Right. Wrong thing to say.

Kageyama blows out a heavy breath and tries to push past the haze of fatigue that hangs over him and makes his tongue looser and meaner than it should be. “It’s not stupid,” he says. “If it made you wake me up in the middle of the night, it can’t be stupid.”

Mouth pulled down in a frown, Hinata drops his gaze. “You might think it’s stupid though. Even if I don’t.”

Kageyama shakes his head. “I won’t think it’s stupid. Just tell me what happened.” He can feel Hinata’s fingers toying with the hem of his shirt, rubbing it between the calloused pads and tugging gently.

Hinata rolls his lower lip between his teeth, and Kageyama waits, even though he wants to groan with impatience.

Finally, Hinata says, “I had a nightmare.”

Kageyama frowns. “That’s not stupid. What happened?”

Hinata’s fingers release his shirt and move to drum against his hip. He shrugs.

“What happened?” Kageyama repeats. Now that he has started talking, Kageyama knows he’s going to tell him everything; he just needs to be patient, slowly work the information out of Hinata bit by bit.

The fingers fist around his shirt, pinkie brushing the skin above his hip. “You can’t laugh,” he says.

“I won’t,” Kageyama promises, more forceful than is probably necessary, but he refuses to let Hinata believe—even for a second—that he would.

Hinata lets out a quiet breath. “It was our last game,” he says. “Our last game with Karasuno, and we won, but as soon as the game was over, Bokuto-san and Ushijima-san came and said that you were their setter now, and Oikawa-san and Miya-san said they would be my setters from now on, and everyone said that we’d never play together again. They all said that was the end of the freak quick and we’d never be teammates again, and then they took you away, and I didn’t think I’d ever see you again or hit one of your tosses again, and I don’t want that to happen,” he says, finally looking up at Kageyama.

“I know we won’t always be teammates, but we’re going to play on the national team together. We’re going to win an Olympic gold medal together. Even if we don’t play on the same professional team, we’ll still be on the national team together, and you’re always going to be the setter I most want to give me tosses, even if Oikawa-san and Miya-san make good ones, and I—”

“Hinata,” Kageyama interrupts, cutting off the flood of words that had been steadily growing in volume.

Hinata’s mouth snaps shut, and Kageyama shakes his head.

“You think it’s stupid,” Hinata says. “It’s dumb to be upset about that.”

Kageyama shakes his head again, quicker. “It’s not dumb to be upset, but it is dumb to think that that would happen.”

Hinata’s nose scrunches. “But there’s no way we’ll end up on the same team. Not professionally.”

Kageyama shrugs. “No, probably not,” he concedes, “but no matter who I end up playing with they’ll never be a better partner than you.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. Far too cheesy and ooey-gooey and everything Kageyama doesn’t want to be. But it’s worth it for the way Hinata’s eyes light up and a brilliant grin splits his face.

“Yeah?” he asks, breathless with excitement and maybe even relief.

Cheeks warm, Kageyama nods.

Hinata’s grin only grows. “Cool,” he says. Then he pushes back into Kageyama’s space and wraps his arms tightly around him. “Cool.”

Kageyama huffs, but he doesn’t disagree. It is pretty cool.

\----

**After**

“Niichan.”

He hears as one does when they’re underwater, indistinct, the sound traveling slowly, so slowly.

“Niichan.”

This one is louder, sharper, clearer like he’s approaching the surface.

“Niichan!”

He blinks, and the room comes into focus around him, blurry lines solidifying into the black rectangle of the TV and the old wood of the entertainment stand it sits on.

“Niichan!”

When he turns, he expects frustration and annoyance, anger for his callous inattention. He finds only worry, only fear. It swims in the familiar golden brown of Natsu’s eyes, settles in the deep furrows of her brow, and catches at the corners of her mouth, dragging them down.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Eyes wide and full of a dread Kageyama doesn’t understand, Natsu says, “Tobio-niichan, you can’t do that,” with all the authority of a child set on getting her way.

Kageyama frowns at her. “Can’t do what? I didn’t do anything.”

She shakes her head, and he thinks there might be tears in her eyes, giving them a glassy look that only magnifies the fear. “Exactly! You have to do something,” she says. “You can’t do nothing.”

The furrows in his brow deepen, carved from confusion and uncertainty. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

Brows pinching with a fear that edges toward panic, Natsu shuffles around until she’s on her knees facing him, and Kageyama turns more fully towards her, bringing a leg up onto the couch and resting his elbow on the back. With a grave expression, Natsu reaches out and places her hands on his shoulders. They’re small, impossibly small, breakably small. She gives him a gentle shake.

“You can’t do nothing,” she repeats. “You have to do something, niichan. You have to. When you do nothing, it’s like you’re not there. It’s like you’re gone, too. It’s like—” Her lower lip trembles, and a tear escapes, carving a crystalline path down the cheek still round with youth. “It’s like we lost you, too,” she finally says. Teeth scraping over her lip, she shakes her head. “We can’t lose you, too. I can’t lose you, too.”

A grimace twists his lips. “Natsu—” he begins, but she only shakes her head more vigorously.

“Don’t lie, niichan. Don’t say it’s nothing. Don’t say not to worry.” Her fingers curl around his shoulders, grip going tight. “You’re not here sometimes. Even when you’re here, you’re not really here. And I know it happens to all of us. Me and mama and papa. But it happens to you the most. When we’re eating or watching something or playing something. It happens too much, and I—” She catches her lower lip between her teeth and gives him a devastatingly pleading look. “I don’t want you to go, too. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

With great difficulty, he swallows, though it does him little good.

He doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t know what there is to say.

Nothing she said was untrue. Nothing she said wasn’t an echo of his parents, his friends, his teachers, and anyone else who thought his frequent zone-outs were their business.

But, just like with them, he has no answer. Any explanation would be a half truth. Any promise to do better would be a blatant lie.

He swallows again. “I’m here now,” he says because that, at least, is true. “I’m right here.” He leaves out the qualifiers and conditionals, the extra words that would reveal the ephemeral nature of those statements, but he thinks she hears them anyways.

Her gaze drops, and another tear makes the slow journey down her face. “Please stay, Tobio-niichan,” she says—pleads. “Please don’t go.”

Any promise would be a blatant lie, so “I’m here now,” he repeats because that is all he can give.

\----

**Before**

Kageyama knows he’s staring. He also knows he shouldn’t be staring. Not at anyone but particularly not at boke Hinata.

There’s no reason for it after all. Hinata’s small stature already makes him easy to overlook, easy to slide your gaze right over without letting it catch on the 165 cm frame. His shockingly orange, obnoxiously messy hair is also an eyesore, not something you would want to look at unless you hoped to go blind. And then there’s his big mouth, always full of words or food, both of which would make any onlooker want to look away as quickly as possible.

And Kageyama wants to look away.

He does.

It’s just…hard.

Because despite his small frame and his blinding hair and his always-running mouth, there’s also something about Hinata that makes Kageyama feel like he’s going to miss something if he looks away. Something interesting, something fun, something completely and uniquely Hinata Shouyou that he just doesn’t want to miss out on.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s stupid.

There’s no reason to stare. Nobody else stares. The girls and boys in their year overlook him because he’s the weird, volleyball-obsessed kid who could still pass as an elementary school student. The teachers overlook him because he’s never been the brightest student in the class nor does he ever want to be. And their opponents overlook him because they see no threat, unless they’ve heard about Karasuno’s undersized but overpowered future ace.

So there’s no reason to stare. None at all.

Especially not right now, when Hinata has soy sauce dripping down his chin and a clump of rice caught at the corner of his mouth, too busy trying to inhale everything in front of him to have time to clean his face.

It’s disgusting.

It’s unsanitary.

It’s absurd.

Yet Kageyama can’t look away. He can’t drag his eyes back to his own plate of quickly cooling food. He can’t focus on anything besides the way Hinata swipes the last dumpling from under Tanaka’s nose with a triumphant grin or the way he pops said dumpling in his mouth with a pleased hum, chewing vigorously as Tanaka gripes at him.

Still glowing with his victory, Hinata turns to survey the table and freezes when he spots Kageyama staring at him, cheeks stuffed with so much food he resembles a woodland animal and not a second year spiker. “What?” he demands through the mouthful, and Kageyama grimaces as bits of chewed up food spray onto his plate. “What’re you looking at?”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing, he should say. Because there’s nothing _to_ look at. Just Hinata forgetting basic manners. Just Hinata trying to cram as much food into his mouth before Noya or Tanaka can finish it. Just Hinata being his usual gross self.

The corners of Hinata’s mouth draw down, and the clump of rice shifts with the movement, clinging tenaciously to skin. “Why are you staring, Kageyama? You want to fight or something? I’ll fight you for the last of the beef curry, and I’ll win.”

Kageyama does not want to fight him. Not for the beef curry. Not for anything. And it’s ridiculous. It’s beyond ridiculous. Frankly, at this point, it’s a little pathetic.

Hinata raises his chopsticks in the semblance of a threat. “Don’t test me, Bakageyama. I may have scored the most points today, but I still have enough energy to beat you here just like I beat Johzenji on the court.”

Kageyama scoffs. “You didn’t beat Johzenji. We all did. It’s a team sport, boke. You can’t beat anybody by yourself.”

Hinata frowns at him. “Yeah, but we wouldn’t have won without my spikes.”

“And you wouldn’t have had any spikes without my tosses,” Kageyama counters with a roll of his eyes. “And I wouldn’t have had any tosses without Noya’s receives. It’s a team sport, stupid. You can’t take all the credit.”

Hinata huffs. “Fine, but I can take all the curry,” he says, reaching out to pull the bowl close, and Kageyama laughs, part-amusement and part-teasing.

“I didn’t want the curry anyways,” he says, going for the yakisoba.

“You only say that because I got to it first.”

“I only say that because it’s the truth.”

“Whatever, baka.”

“You have rice on your face, boke.”

Hinata falters. “What?”

“You have rice on your face,” Kageyama repeats, gesturing with his own chopsticks, “and some soy sauce, too. You look stupid. Like you don’t actually know how to eat.”

Cheeks turning a soft red, Hinata lifts a hand and scrubs at his mouth and chin, wincing when the sticky rice catches on his skin and leaves a streak behind. Beside him, Kageyama stares. Because that’s apparently all he can do anymore. Play volleyball, eat, and stare at Hinata Shouyou (his teammate and partner) like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be looking.

“What?” Hinata demands when his face is mostly clean. “I got it all off.”

Kageyama blinks at him.

“Stop staring, stupid,” Hinata says, flush darkening. “It’s creepy.”

“There’s a leaf in your hair,” Kageyama replies. It’s a lie, but he knows Hinata’ll believe him, and it’s amusing when he drops his chopsticks to frantically paw at his hair, cursing the leaf and his own messy locks while Kageyama stares on, wondering for the millionth time why he would want to look at Hinata of all people when he’s seated at a table with Kiyoko, Yachi, and Ennoshita. All cleaner, more polite, and objectively better looking people.

It’s ridiculous. It’s really and truly ridiculous.

\----

**After**

He spills through the sliding glass doors before they’ve even fully opened, heart pounding and breaths coming too quick. He looks around frantically, scans the unfamiliar faces, and drags in a shuddering breath.

Where are they? Where are they? Where are they?

_Where is he?_

Blood a dull roar in his ears, he stumbles to the front desk and slaps his palms against the smooth surface, making the attendants jump. “Hinata Shouyou,” he gasps. “Hinata Shouyou. I’m here for Hinata Shouyou. He was just brought in. They just brought him in. There was an accident. He was on his bike. They said they were bringing him here. Where is he? Where can I find him? I—”

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice interrupts, and Kageyama turns to find a man wearing medical scrubs and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hinata, you said?”

Kageyama nods frantically. “Hinata Shouyou. They just brought him in. I just got the call. I got here—”

“Follow me,” the man interrupts, gentle but firm. “The family is in the waiting room. I’ll take you to join them.”

Heart still beating a frenzied rhythm in his chest, Kageyama pushes away from the desk and follows the man, eyes a little too wild as he looks around.

Everything is white and gleaming and sterile, all hushed voices and practiced efficiency.

_Where is he?_

Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?

His sneakers squeak over the pristine epoxy floors, and he wonders how often they have to clean them to keep them so spotless.

It’s a terrible thought. Morbid, dark, and frightening.

He tastes blood in the back of his throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s from his desperate sprint to get here or the macabre thoughts now filling his head.

“Tobio-kun,” he hears, and his head snaps around to find the speaker, locating Hinata’s mother by the brilliant orange of her husband’s hair.

“Thank you,” he tells the doctor—nurse?—with a quick, almost forgotten bow.

The man tips his head in return and leaves.

Hands still trembling with adrenaline, Kageyama quickly makes his way over to the couple, greeting them both before asking, “Natsu?”

Something not quite like a smile twists the lips of Hinata’s mother. “With the neighbors,” she says. “We didn’t want her here if…” She clears her throat. “If we had to wait a while.”

The hesitation and thinly-veiled self-correction deepen the frown already marring Kageyama’s mouth. He nods. “Have you—Do you know—Shouyou?” he finally settles on, and the clinging wisps of her smile vanish.

“No news,” she says, and her husband offers a grim grin.

“No news is good news though, right?”

Kageyama doesn’t know if that’s true, but he wants it to be. Now more than he ever has.

His head moves up and down in slow agreement. “So we just wait?”

Hinata’s mother reaches out and curls a hand around his arm. “We wait,” she echoes, and the words ring in his ears.

\----

**Before**

The night feels thick all around them, heavy with humidity and weighed down by a heat more typical of early August than late May. Above them, the sky sprawls out, littered with stars and the odd satellite here or there, and Kageyama feels incredibly small beneath its vast expanse.

“I feel like the longer I look the more stars I see,” Hinata says, voice just loud enough for Kageyama to hear.

He hums.

“Like I’ll be looking at one star and there’ll be a few around it, but the more I concentrate on it the more other stars start to pop up around it. Like they’re appearing out of thin air. Poof, poof, poof. Popping up in places they weren’t before.”

Kageyama hums again.

“Are you listening to me?”

A quiet grin tugs at Kageyama’s lips.

“You’re not listening to me,” Hinata says, an exaggerated annoyance staining the words. “That’s so rude, Kageyama. I’m your boyfriend. You’re supposed to listen to me.”

The novelty of that word in this context hasn’t worn off. It still catches Kageyama by surprise, sends a shock down his spins and leaves a pleasant warmth swirling in his chest.

“I’m listening,” he says, tipping his head to look at Hinata, who’s already looking back, eyes focused and messy hair vibrant even in the dark.

Hinata narrows his eyes. “Oh yeah? Then what was I just saying?”

Kageyama snorts. “Is this a quiz?”

“Were you actually listening?”

A put-upon sigh escapes Kageyama, but he gives in because he’s too tired to bicker with Hinata. Or maybe too happy. “I was,” he says. “You were talking about how you see more stars the longer you look. It’s like they pop up from nothing. One second they’re not there, then the next—poof—a star is suddenly where it wasn’t before.”

Hinata makes a sound of reluctant surrender. “Guess you were paying attention.”

“I told you I was.”

“You just made a sound when I asked. That’s not a yes or a no.”

“It was a yes.”

“Didn’t sound like a yes.”

Huffing, Kageyama blindly reaches out and finds Hinata’s hand. “It was a yes,” he repeats, trying to fight the flush that wants to creep up his neck and cheeks. “Because I was listening.”

Hinata’s fingers slip between his, warm and comfortable. “Can’t you just say yes next time?”

Kageyama hums.

“That’s not an answer,” Hinata immediately objects. “That’s not a yes or a no, and it doesn’t sound like a yes or no either.”

“Maybe,” Kageyama says. In response to Hinata’s observation or his question.

Hinata huffs. “Just say yes like a normal person,” he grumbles. “It’d be easier.”

“Is that the goal here? Easier?”

Hinata’s hair rustles the grass as he turns to look at Kageyama. “What do you mean?”

Kageyama doesn’t know what he means, so he shrugs, but Hinata has never been one to let things go when he decides he wants answers.

“What does that mean?”

Kageyama shrugs again, and Hinata tugs at his hand.

“No, you have to answer. No humming, no sounds, no shrugs. You have to actually use your words.”

Kageyama blows out a slow breath and lets his eyes fall shut.

Hinata tugs at his hand once more. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Do you not think this is easy?”

The delivery is flippant, but the tone beneath it isn’t, and Kageyama cracks an eye open, turning to peer at Hinata, who watches him with a guarded expression. It reminds him of the face Hinata would make the first few times he reached out to hold Kageyama’s hand. Unsure about how the gesture would be received, unsure of himself and the new role he had come to fill in Kageyama’s life, unsure of them and the ways they would fit together, on and off the court.

Kageyama draws in a careful breath and hopes he doesn’t say the wrong thing. “I mean is easier the goal,” he repeats. “Has easier ever been the goal?”

Hinata doesn’t reply, not that Kageyama expected him to.

“You’ll never get better doing what’s easy,” Kageyama says because that feels like a good way to begin, though he doesn’t know where this will end and he doesn’t know how to get there either. “Not in volleyball, not in life. You have to focus on the hard stuff: receiving, battling in midair, talking to your,” he waves his free hand through the air, “your person.”

A soft laugh greets those words, and some of the tension in Kageyama eases.

“You have to work on that stuff. Over and over and over because it’s hard, but you’ll only get better if you focus on the things that are hard for you.”

“Are you saying talking to me is hard?” The question is teasing, light and frivolous, but Kageyama knows the intention behind it is true.

He shifts, grass crunching beneath him. “Listening to you talk is easier,” he admits.

Hinata makes a thoughtful sound. “Has talking to people always been hard?”

Kageyama thinks about it for a moment then shrugs. “I guess.”

“Even before middle school?”

The strangeness of the question brings a furrow to Kageyama’s brow. “What does middle school have to do with this?”

Hinata’s thumb sweeps over the back of his hand. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess just that I know your team had trouble communicating.”

“And what?” Kageyama bristles. “That was my fault?”

“No,” Hinata quickly assures. “If it was anyone’s fault, it was your coach’s. He should’ve taught you guys to communicate. He should’ve helped you figure out how to talk through problems and figure out how to make things work.”

The words cool some of the frustration in Kageyama’s belly. “Yeah? Did yours do that?”

Hinata snorts. “My coach didn’t exist,” he says, “and our sensei barely knew what a volleyball was.”

A brief glimpse of middle school Hinata flashes through Kageyama’s mind, standing proudly on the steps, looking down at Kageyama and promising that he would be the one to defeat him next time.

“Does that mean Ukai-san has been the one to teach us how to communicate?” he asks, confusion and humor warring in the words.

Hinata laughs, and his fingers tighten around Kageyama’s. “I think Takeda-sensei has helped out with that more than Ukai-san.”

Kageyama snorts. “True.”

Hinata squeezes his hand. “I think we figured out a lot of it together, too,” he adds, and the words burrow between Kageyama’s ribs and make a home in his chest.

“True,” he says, voice tighter than it previously was.

Hinata gives him a fond look, all curled lips and squinty eyes. “And I think it’s easier. It keeps getting easier.”

Kageyama kind of wants to curl up in a ball and die, but he also wants to never let go of Hinata’s hand or look away from the warmth of his gaze. “True,” he says once more, and Hinata shakes his head, mouth breaking into a dazzling grin.

\----

**After**

Shadows play over the ceiling and walls, indistinct shapes that twist and writhe, forming and reforming across the bland white. The room is quiet—painfully quiet, unbearably quiet—and the weight of the quiet presses at Kageyama’s chest, slowly crushing him.

His bed feels too big.

It shouldn’t.

He used to think it was too small. As he grew taller and longer, he would complain about his feet nearly hanging off the bottom or his arms always falling to the ground when he rolled over. He would say there was no way he could keep such a small bed, for he would soon outgrow it. He would need a new bed. There wasn’t enough space, so he would need a new bed.

Now, there is too much space. Wide and stark and without end. Unignorable, unfillable.

The emptiness is another weight, piled on top of the quiet, pushing down, down, down until Kageyama wonders if he will ever breathe again.

Sometimes he wonders if he even wants to breathe again.

An acrid taste burns his tongue, and he chases that thought away before rolling over, arms wrapping around his pillow to tuck it under his chin as he gazes out the window.

The night sky seems endless, a never-ending sprawl of midnight blue and glittering stars, highlighted by the full moon that hangs low in its great expanse, dipping down to whisper a quiet hello to those unlucky enough to still be awake. Though it’s foolish, childish even, Kageyama whispers a quiet hello in return.

Although he never much cared for the moon or the stars or the vast space they fill, his sleepless nights spent observing their celestial habitation have kindled a sort of appreciation in him.

If asked, he would still say he prefers the bright light of the sun (the warmth that sinks beneath his skin, the brilliance that illuminates his path), but he has come to appreciate the moon. After all, it is only a reflection of the sun—paler, colder, somehow more distant despite its proximity—but if he focuses enough, he can feel the echoes of warmth.

\----

**Before**

Noya’s receive is clean, beautiful, a flawless dig that has the ball popping back up into the air in a smooth, high arch, spinning slowly as it approaches Kageyama. He crouches in preparation, the gentle burn in his legs something he can ignore for just a little longer. Just one more toss, just one more point.

On his left, Tanaka shouts for the ball. Behind him, Ennoshita says he’s open. On his right, Hinata blurs through the air, arm raised, legs kicked up behind him, eyes on Kageyama and the ball. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to say anything.

The familiar weight of the ball sinks into the cushion of Kageyama’s fingers, and his elbows bend a fraction, loading, loading, loading. Then he snaps them straight, fingers flicking the ball Hinata’s way.

His fingers, Hinata’s hand, the ground.

A quick one, two, three.

So fast their opponents can’t keep up. So fast the crowd is left staring, rubbing their eyes as they try to figure out how the ball went from the setter’s hands to the approaching spiker’s palm to the opposite side of the court, where it rolls behind the back row, signaling the end of the match.

In the silence that follows, Kageyama can hear Hinata’s sneakers squeak against the parquet flooring. One, two, as he comes back down to earth.

On instinct, Kageyama turns, and Hinata is already looking at him, mouth split in a wide grin that wrinkles his cheeks and turns his eyes into little, joyful slits. Kageyama mirrors the action, though he knows his smile will never be as brilliant or as blinding as Hinata’s.

“Kageyama!” Hinata shouts. Then he launches himself through the air once more and crashes into Kageyama. Unprepared for the force of Hinata’s embrace, Kageyama loses his balance, and they tumble to the ground in a tangle of messy limbs, elbows and knees knocking together.

“Hinata boke,” Kageyama says in reply, and though he tries for a chastising tone—what if they had gotten hurt?—he knows he fails. Abysmally.

“Kageyama, Kageyama, Kageyama,” Hinata repeats, sitting up and grinning down at him like he hadn’t heard the insult at all. Maybe he hadn’t, or maybe he was just ignoring it. Either is possible, especially with the noise of the crowd suddenly filling the large gym, echoing through the cavernous space in a great, celebratory roar. “We did it! We did it! We’re going to nationals again!”

As he speaks, he fits his hands over Kageyama’s shoulders, fingers curling in the sweaty material of his jersey, and he gives Kageyama a gentle shake.

“We made it,” he says, flushed with joyful victory. “We made it.”

He is…

Kageyama doesn’t even know what he is.

Unbelievable.

Incredible.

Stupidly perfect.

Any of those things.

All of them.

With his wild hair, his glowing eyes, and his dazzling grin, he is all of those things, rolled up into one small but somehow unbeatable package.

“Kageyama, we won!” Hinata repeats, as if worried Kageyama didn’t hear him the first time or doesn’t understand what that last point meant. “We won, we won, we won!”

They did.

With a final quick, the new one they’ve been working on all season, they secured victory over Daketo and will be returning to nationals as the representatives of the Miyagi prefecture. They’ll play on Japan’s biggest stage once more.

Kageyama is alight with it, adrenaline and excitement buzzing through his system at the thought of competing against Japan’s best, of showing why they are among Japan’s best—if not the best.

Fresh off their victory, he is fire and sparks and white-hot electricity, and Hinata feels like gasoline, like a supercharged battery that just plugged into his system, like a lightning strike that he could have never avoided—would have never wanted to avoid.

“We won,” he murmurs, staring up at Hinata in shock as he realizes—with a sharp, sudden, almost painful clarity—that he is (and has probably been for quite some time) stupidly, foolishly, embarrassingly in love with this mess of a wing spiker. “Shit.”

Hinata’s brows pull together, and his weight suddenly sits a little heavier on Kageyama, thankfully high enough up he won’t cause any unwanted and involuntary reactions. “You don’t sound happy,” he observes with a frown. “Why don’t you sound happy?”

Kageyama isn’t unhappy per se. He’s just…processing. Coming to terms with the reality of being in love with his volleyball partner and the one person who can drive him insane in the best and worst ways. Damn it.

“I’m happy,” he says with enough force to send Hinata’s brows up and under the fringe of sweaty, orange hair. “I’m really happy, but I’d be happier if you’d get off of me, so I could breathe because we just played four sets and I’m tired.”

Some of the worry clears from Hinata’s face, and he shifts for a minute, mouth tugging down in a frown, before swinging a leg back over Kageyama’s chest and clambering to his feet. Once upright, he holds a hand out, and Kageyama stares at it for a minute, suddenly hyperaware of Hinata’s thin fingers and toned forearms.

“Just take it, stupid,” Hinata says, fondly exasperated. “It’s not going to bite or anything.”

Maybe not, Kageyama thinks, but he can still feel the electricity thrumming beneath his skin, can still feel the flickering flame ready to burst into a wildfire with one brush of Hinata’s warm palm against his. He frowns.

“I know.”

“Then take it, dummy. We have to get up for handshakes.” Hinata pushes his hand a little farther forward and gives the court an obvious onceover, drawing Kageyama’s attention back to their team, their opponents, the crowd all around them. So many people. So many people watching them.

Cheeks flushing hotly, he scrambles to his feet, ignoring the huff and muttered comment Hinata makes about his dismissed offer of help. Then he makes his way to the backline with the rest of the team and turns to face their exhausted and forlorn opponents, ignoring the way Hinata slides into place beside him, the sleeve of his jersey brushing Kageyama’s arm.

Shit, this is bad.

\----

**After**

We’re so sorry.

I’m so sorry.

We did everything we could.

He fought until the very end.

I’m so sorry.

We’re so sorry.

Meaningless words. Rote phrases that have been said time and time again. False condolences because you can only feel so sorry when death is a regular part of your job.

Kageyama can’t _breathe_.

He can’t expand his chest with the iron fists that now surround his lungs. He can’t suck in air past the lump that now sits high in his throat. He can’t get his brain to tell his body to do one of the few things it was automatically wired to do.

He can’t _breathe._

The lights are too bright. The room is too small. The tick of the clock—moving forward, moving past this moment—is too loud.

He wants to scream.

He wants to fist his hands in his hair, fall to his knees, and scream until his throat bleeds.

But be can’t breathe, so he can’t scream.

Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

It’s the only word that matters now. It’s the only word that holds any meaning.

Gone.

Like a candle snuffed out. Like a fire doused with water. Like the sun blotted out by the cold expanse of the moon.

Gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

No, he wants to say.

But he can’t speak.

No, he wants to cry.

But he can’t breathe.

Gone.

It echoes in his head, rings in his ears, rattles through his brain until he wonders if this is what it means to fall apart at the seams. Ripping, tearing, rending until nothing remains but a pile of useless, senseless scraps.

Gone.

He’s never hated a word more.

\----

**Before**

A warm weight lands on his shoulder, and he grunts, keeping his eyes on his homework because he needs to finish this before Hinata can distract him with a new play or a movie he wants to watch or a kiss that bleeds into another and then another and then another, until Kageyama loses track of time and space and everything outside of Hinata’s mouth and his hands and all the rest of him, too.

He continues to work, and Hinata remains uncharacteristically quiet. It’s strange. It’s unnatural.

After a few minutes of silence, he finally gives into the temptation to look away from his English homework and the lines of text that blur together. “Hinata,” he mutters, jerking his shoulder lightly to jostle the other boy. “I just have three more. Then I’ll be done.”

Hinata doesn’t reply.

Frowning, Kageyama tilts his head, trying to catch his boyfriend’s eye. “Did you finish? Math and English? Did you—”

Hinata is asleep. Really, truly, genuinely asleep. His features are slack, his eyelashes flutter, and soft breaths whistle out of his nose at a steady rate.

Kageyama’s mouth draws down. “Hey,” he says, “boke, you can’t fall asleep yet. We need to finish this. It’s due tomorrow.”

Still no reply.

Kageyama lifts his shoulder, but Hinata only follows the movement, up and back down, breaths stuttering for a moment before settling once more. An even in-out, in-out that has Kageyama feeling the weight of a long week and extended practices.

“Shouyou,” he murmurs, moving his shoulder again. He doesn’t want to wake him, but they have to finish this. They have a practice match next week, and if their grades aren’t passing, they won’t get to play. “We have to finish this.”

Low and displeased, Hinata groans and turns to press his face against Kageyama’s shoulder. “Too tired,” he mumbles, voice thick with fatigue.

Kageyama snorts. “What? And you think I’m not?”

Hinata snuffles against the fabric of his shirt. “If you’re tired, too, then we should just take a nap.”

Kageyama’s eyes flit over to his bed, which does look particularly inviting right now: covers turned down, pillow fluffed, sheets crisp over the thin mattress. “We can sleep afterwards,” he decides. “We have to finish this first though.”

Hinata shakes his head. “Sleep first. I can’t think right now. My brain is mush.”

“It is not,” Kageyama scoffs. “You’re just being a baby.”

“’m not being a baby,” Hinata protests, winding his arms around Kageyama’s waist. “I’m just tired, and I want to nap. We can do homework afterwards.”

A dubious huff slips out of Kageyama.

“We can,” Hinata says, lips moving against Kageyama’s shirt and the skin beneath. “We’ll set an alarm and everything. Then, as soon as it goes off, we’ll get up and finish these stupid problems, and we’ll be faster because we won’t be tired anymore.”

It’s a sound argument. One that Kageyama can’t (read: doesn’t want to) disagree with. He looks at his bed again. The warm blanket, the white sheets.

“As soon as it goes off,” he says, and he can feel the way Hinata’s mouth splits in a triumphant grin. “As soon as it goes off, we have to get up.”

“Of course,” Hinata agrees, pulling away to slowly rise to his feet. “We can have an hour, right? That’s enough for a good nap.”

Sighing, Kageyama rises to his feet and follows Hinata to the bed. “One hour,” he says, pulling out his phone. “No more. And as soon as it goes off—”

“We get up,” Hinata finishes, burrowing under the covers and making grabby hands at him. “Now, come here. I want cuddles.”

Kageyama huffs.

“Come on.”

Fingers nimble on his phone’s screen, Kageyama sets the alarm.

“Kageyama,” Hinata whines. “You’re wasting time.”

Carefully, Kageyama sets his phone on the nightstand.

“Kageyama.”

He surveys the bed.

“Tobio,” Hinata says with a firm pout. “Bed. Now.”

Kageyama arches a brow, “Bossy,” and Hinata rolls his eyes.

“Are you saying you don’t want to cuddle? Because if you don’t want to I can just cuddle with your pillow or that stuffed—”

“No,” Kageyama says, nearly leaping into bed. “No, that’s fine. You don’t need to do that. I’ll cuddle you. We’ll cuddle. Come here.”

A sneaky, pleased grin curls Hinata’s lips, and he scoots forward, into the space that he fits in so well. “Much better than a pillow,” he says, arms looping around Kageyama, who only hums in agreement, sleep already pulling at him.

\----

**After After**

There is a space before him and another behind. Small gaps in their ranks, tiny cracks. But they feel like gaping chasms, wide canyons that no one can cross.

Tsukishima has never been more grateful for the blank façade he spent years cultivating, the impenetrable mask that he can wear like any other accessory, pulling it on then off then on again as needed.

Around him stand the other teams. Neat lines that span the gymnasium. Rows and rows of players whose hopes and dreams he can almost feel, painfully alive and achingly present.

Letting his eyes fall shut, he draws in a slow breath through his nose, sending up a silent prayer to whatever damned being might be listening—if any—a plea to just let him get through this. Just let them get through this. Please. _Please._

A voice echoes through the rafters, the announcer beginning the usual speech. He welcomes the teams and spectators and thanks them for the time and preparation they have all invested in this beautiful sport.

Tsukishima opens his eyes.

The space before him is still empty.

The space behind him is, too.

He sets his jaw and focuses on Yamaguchi instead of the depthless void between them. The patch of hair right on top of his head that never sits flat. The freckles that dot the skin of his nape. The line of his shoulders that sag with a weight Tsukishima wishes he didn’t have to bear.

“And now,” the announcer continues, voice growing solemn in a way that catches Tsukishima’s attention, “we would like to ask for a moment of silence.”

Yama’s shoulders tense, and Tsukishima can see the slight tremble that runs through him. He wants to reach out, rest a hand on those overburdened shoulders, and remind Yamaguchi that he’s here, that they’re both here, together.

He doesn’t though.

There is already enough attention on them.

“This year,” the announcer says, “we lost two—” He falters, and Tsukishima clenches his hands into fists. Please, let them get through this. Please, just get them through this.

Finally, the announcer continues, “This year, we lost two of the greatest talents to ever compete in this tournament.” His voice is terribly soft, hushed in a way that feels too loud.

Before Tsukishima, Yamaguchi’s head bows, and Tsukishima can just make out the quiet sob that escapes him.

“Hinata Shouyou and Kageyama Tobio,” the names are a sucker punch to the gut, “will be remembered for their stunning attacks, their brilliant athleticism, and their incredible intelligence on the court. However, they will also be remembered for their indomitable spirit, their relentless determination, and their inexhaustible desire to always do better.”

Yamaguchi’s fingers curl in the material of his shorts, and another soft cry spills from his lips.

But he is not the only one.

Tsukishima can hear their teammates behind them, their opponents around them, and even their parents over them.

The corners of his mouth draw down as tears prick at his own eyes.

“Today,” the announcer says, “we play for them. For the legacy they left behind, for the lessons they taught us all, and for the indelible influence they had on everyone whose path they crossed. Now, please, join us in remembering them with a moment of silence.”

He goes quiet then, but the silence that falls around them is delicate, fragile, broken by the sound of muffled tears and chocked back sobs.

The noise presses at Tsukishima from all sides, painfully loud, unbearably close, and he just wants to reach out and take Yamaguchi’s hand, find an anchor in the sea of tears and cling for dear life, but he can’t.

The space before him is Kageyama’s, just as the space behind him is Hinata’s.

He can’t breach those.

He can’t disturb them.

So he stands in place, bites his lip until he fears he may bleed, and waits.

One breath.

Then two.

Three.

And thent four.

He loses count.

It’s too loud. It’s too much.

Finally, “Thank you,” the announcer says, reverent. “We will now begin the first matches.”

Across the gleaming floors, the familiar chorus of ‘Thank you for the game!’ rings through the air, and Tsukishima uses the crashing volume to let out a quaking breath.

With the speech over and their thanks given, the teams begin to disperse, quieter than they’d normally be, and Tsukishima fixes his eyes on the ground, ignoring the condolences people murmur as they pass. He hates condolences. He hates apologies. He’s received too many in the last few months, more than he’d like to remember, more than he ever wanted.

“Tsukki.”

It’s soft, gentle, a question and an offer rolled into one.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tsukishima grits his teeth, bites back the cry that wants to escape him, and tries not to let it shake him too much.

“Tsukki.”

It comes again, closer, and when he forces his eyes open, he can see Yamaguchi’s shoes, beat up and worn out after a long—interminably long—season.

He shakes his head.

Fingers reach out, slow and careful, waiting for him to step back if the touch is unwelcome, and he closes his eyes again, feeling the familiar heat loop around his wrist.

They stand like that for a moment. For more than a moment.

Tsukishima can feel the eyes all around them, trying not to stare but failing abysmally.

He swallows.

Then he swallows again.

Finally, he drags his head up and opens his eyes to look at Yamaguchi.

There’s a familiar twist to his lips, the smile that holds too much sadness, and Tsukishima frowns because he never learned how to fake it.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Yamaguchi says, “and that will have to be enough.”

Tsukishima draws in a ragged breath.

It will never be enough.

Nothing they do will ever be enough.

Yamaguchi’s fingers gently squeeze his wrist. “They’ll understand.”

They will.

Of course they will.

Because Hinata always understood and Kageyama learned to understand.

But that doesn’t make this any easier.

That doesn’t make any of this easier.

Shoulders sagging, Tsukishima says, “I know,” and Yamaguchi nods.

The only understanding they need.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers/Triggers: Hinata dies in a cycling accident. This occurs off-screen and is not described beyond just that. Several scenes occur in a hospital waiting room as well. Finally, this fic deals heavily with Kageyama trying to cope with that loss. He experiences a panic attack, some dissociation, and suicidal ideations. In the final scene, it is implied that he eventually took his own life.
> 
> Hey friend, you made it. Have a tissue and a big hug, and please feel free to share your thoughts with me through kudos, comments, or [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/crooked-silence). <3


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